


The Musings of DI Raymond

by aimeewrites



Category: Silent Witness (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-30
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:54:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22480600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimeewrites/pseuds/aimeewrites
Summary: DI Jill Raymond goes back home after her last case (Hope)
Relationships: DI Raymond/ DI Murphy
Comments: 11
Kudos: 43





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well... You can all guess why I wrote this ; maybe a one-shot or maybe longer depending on the comments / and inspiration 
> 
> as for DI Carey Murphy, she appeared in Series 22 - Two spirits ( https://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b0by8xnl)

« Yes, Sir…. No, Sir… Thank you… No, it won’t happen again, but then it wasn’t exactly planned… I know, Sir – I can only apologize again. Goodbye, Sir.”

I hung up the phone and ran my hand on my nape, trying to untie the knots that had been forming from the beginning of the case. A night working at my desk was not exactly the best way to take care of my back – in the literal sense. It had been, however, the best way to make the higher-ups happy. Or happier – they were rarely happy, but the quickest they got reports on murder cases, the better . I looked at the clock – 7 am. The Super hadn’t lost anytime – but then, he had probably been woken up very early by the phone himself. Turned out that it was not the best idea to delay a plane on which a government official was flying. Even if it was to arrest a murder suspect. My ears were still ringing from the dressing-down. Of course we should have arrested Anne Carson earlier – and in an ideal world we would have.

“Guv? You want another coffee?”

I got up and stretched my back: “Hmm – actually, no thanks, Quinn. I’ll nip home for a bit and try to nap. Report’s ready and emailed, and it should be quite quiet here this morning, hopefully. I’ll be back at 1. Call me if there’s anything urgent.”

“Will do, Guv!”

As I walked out of the building, I wrote a quick text to Carey : “Coming home – where are u? Jx”. The odds she would be at home were slim. Since she had been moved to Counter Terrorism command, she was away more and more often and although I knew she couldn’t help it, I still didn’t like it. My phone beeped back: “Home too but have to leave soon – hurry. Cx” Trust her not to say exactly when.

I quickened my pace and mechanically reached in my pocket for the nicotine gums, but suddenly decided I deserved a real fag – I had a ten-minute walk to my tube line, more than enough time for a smoke. As I lit it, I realised my hands were shaking slightly – probably from sheer exhaustion. That last case had been draining, physically and emotionally. That was probably why I hadn’t taken into account what Clarissa had been trying to tell me – I’d been too tired to focus, and that had done no one any good. Another apology I’d have to make. Not that I didn’t think she needed time to be with her mother, but I could have said something other than “You need to sort yourself out.” I knew exactly what she was going through. I remembered very clearly going back to work after having visited Mum at the hospital, almost too tired to keep my eyes open but too wired up to go to sleep. That had been two years ago… I would never have made it through if Carey hadn’t been by my side the whole time. Mum had never known who she was and it was better that way. Less hassle.

I inhaled deeply and crushed the cigarette on a bin, inches away from the tube entrance. Twelve minutes later, I was unlocking my front door.

“Anybody home?”

The only answer was the sound of footsteps, two arms around my waist and two lips on mine. We broke the kiss only when lack of air threatened to suffocate us. I hadn’t seen my partner for four days since she had been at a seminar on international terrorism counteractions in Brussels and we both hated to be parted that long. She drew me to the couch and helped me out of my blazer as we sank on the well-worn sofa. Two police officers’ salaries didn’t go very far in London and although when we had moved in together five years ago it had saved on rent, we still live in a way more suited to university students than middle-aged women. She nestled beside me and I traced her jaw with my fingers, marvelling as always at why she had agreed to share my life. When I’d met the tall, slender brunette at a police function nearly eight years ago, I’d immediately felt smitten. Well, now I know I had – then, I’d just been utterly impressed by the young woman who’d talked about the rise of teenage armed gangs in London. So mesmerised by her soft Northern lilt that I’d hardly taken anything in and I’d used that as an excuse to introduce myself to her at the end of the day…

“DS Murphy? Good afternoon – I’m DI Raymond – Jill – I’m sorry to bother you. I just wanted to congratulate you on your presentation.”

“It’s no bother at all, Inspector. Compliments – even flattery – always welcome.”

I’d felt myself blush and to my great surprise, I’d blurted out that I’d like her to have a drink with me so we could discuss teenage gangs a little longer. To my even greater surprise, she had accepted my proposition. We had talked about a lot of things that night... Not only gangs. I sighed – the memory of that first night brought back so many others, not all of them as happy.

“Tired, love?”

“You could say that… I should go back to the gym… Running through the corridors of a packed airport is not my idea of fun…”

Carey rose and went to dip her hand in the pocket of the jacket I’d discarded. She held up her find in front of my face – the pack of cigarettes I had smuggled from my office bottom drawer. I chewed on my lower lip and tried to look apologetic: “How did you know? It was only one, darling. And I really, really needed it. And look – I still use those really nice mint gums you bought me, too.” I slipped my hand in my trousers pocket and produced the small box of nicotine replacement gums.

Carey shook her head: “What do you think? I smelled it on your breath, of course. No need to be Sherlock Holmes…J – you know you shouldn’t… The doctor said…”

“The doctor is an ass. And it wasn’t a real heart attack anyway – just a …A coronary spasm.”

When I’d that “coronary spasm” last year, I hadn’t been feeling that cocky – it had been one more sign that the years were catching up on me. And that my partner, the love of my life was a good ten years younger than I was. And truthfully, it had scared me – just not enough to make me quit completely.

Carey stared at the floor and I could see she was trying hard not to get angry. I stood up and drew her into my arms: “I’m sorry, darling – I’ll do better.”

“I – I don’t want you to die! Don’t you think what we do is dangerous enough without trying to kill yourself in another way.” Her mouth was pressed to my shirt and her words were muffled but still clear enough. I could have pointed out one cigarette would hardly kill me but I didn’t want to irritate her further. I hadn’t even had time to ask her how her seminar had gone. We had talked on the phone every night but neither she nor I liked that means of communication and our exchanges had been brief, especially since my own case had not gone smoothly. From her mood, though, I could sense it hadn’t gone very well either. Could be because my Carey did not really like having to be with crowds of people for days on end. Could be because the news about terrorism had been worse than expected – that’s usually the case. Anyway, she seemed hypersensitive this morning, and since we had only a little time before she and I had to go back to work, I didn’t want to quarrel.

“I’m sorry, darling. I don’t want to die either. Come on – I need a nap. Do you have time to…”

She checked her phone: “I’ve got an hour until I have to leave… That should be more than enough to give you sweet dreams…”

“Too many buttons”, she grumbled as she tried to undo the ones on my waistcoat on our way to the bedroom. Once there, she nudged me to sit on the bed and she finished the job and started on my shirt. I tried to do the same with hers but she tutted and pushed my hands back on the bedcover: “Oh no, Inspector – I’m dressed for work…Not going to happen.” By the time she had unbuttoned the lot, replacing each button by a kiss, and reached for my trousers’ clip, my skin was already tingling and I hissed at her to hurry…As if she would pay any attention. When her fingers reached under my panties, I was already so wet I knew I wouldn’t last long…I must have fallen asleep almost immediately after because I woke up alone in the bedroom about two hours later, still in a haze of happy exhaustion. There was a note on the bedside table: “I confiscated the fags – again. Take care, I love you. Cx””

I smiled and headed to the bathroom for a much-needed shower before I had to go back to work.


	2. Chapter 2

The phone rang as I was drying my hair. Of course, it would – there’s rarely a day without something new, unfortunately. We all need to sleep, but that’s about all we can do. Probably why I still find it extraordinary that Carey agreed to move in with me. Her own schedule is more erratic – in times of high alert, she can be on deck H24, but more often than not she almost has an office job.

“Raymond…Yes, I’m listening. Oh crap – really? They’re sure? Cell phone?... Right – of course – I’ll be there asap – yes, sure. Bye.”

Breathe – just breathe – deeply. Again. And again. It never got any better – those were always the hardest cases – missing kids. Missing teenager, in this case. I fought against the onslaught of memories and as always, imagined her in my mind. Emma - she was a woman now – I would never know what she looked like as an adult – very much like her mother, I imagined – she was a carbon copy of her when she was a kid. I’d always hoped she would contact me again, but she never did. When I’d split up with her mother – well, when Carol had left me – I’d told Emma I’d always be there for her. She would always be my daughter, even if I hadn’t given birth to her. But it was different then – without social media. After six months, my letters had been returned unopened – the addressee doesn’t live there anymore. The phone calls were answered by a stranger. And I never saw each other again.

No time for memories – I dressed mechanically – at least I didn’t have to wear the horrible uniform we had in the 80s, although I had kind of adopted one of my own. No more black-and-white hat. Pockets... No ridiculous handbag... And definitely no skirt. There was something comforting of wearing the same kind of clothes everyday – especially now they had invented non-iron shirts.

In the tube, I made a mental list of our next moves. The parents of the missing fourteen-year-old were waiting at the station. Uniforms were already canvassing the area – my DS is efficient - but it would be a nightmare. One of the busiest parts of London, full of tourists. I couldn’t wait to find out why parents would think it safe to let their teenage girl out alone at night in Covent Garden without a mobile phone… We would find her – we had to find her – before anything happened to her. I wouldn’t let it happen again. Not that – not worse. I hadn’t been able to protect Emma, but I would make damn sure this girl got back safely to her family.

As usual, the tube was crowded and it took me ages to exit. By the time I reached Agar Street, I felt as rumpled and grumpy as if I’d already done a full day’s work. I spared two minutes to grab a coffee from the staff room, rueing the day I’d decided I would put my espresso machine in there instead of in my office. Armed with the necessary dose of caffeine for at least an hour, I found DS Jones at his desk and motioned for him to join me.

“So – what have we got so far, Jones?”

He produced a photo of a teenage girl. I would have thought she was about ten but apparently she was fourteen. Jumper, jeans and braces – not really the firebrand type – no wonder the parents thought she had been abducted. But then, appearances were usually deceptive. Maybe she was really a precocious nymphet who posted naked selfies all over the internet and who’d eloped with a boyfriend. Everything was possible.

“The parents say Charlotte and her cousin – about the same age – were just going to watch the market at night – take pictures. They’re on a three-day-trip to London. Seem all right – father’s a university lecturer, mother’s a lawyer. Thank God they speak English.”

“Why wouldn’t they speak English?” I wondered aloud.

“Oh sorry – they’re French – from Paris.”

Fantastic – we had a lost teenager – I wanted to believe she was lost – who might not – who was very probably not, in fact – fluent in English.

“What about the cousin?”

“She’s here with the parents – poor kid – she’s just sixteen and pretty frantic. She says they got separated and she couldn’t find the vic… Sorry, Guv, the misper. Do you think…Should we launch an alert?”

“I need to speak to the parents first.”

Paul Jones knew I didn’t like to use the term “victim” until we’d found a body. And I didn’t want to find one in this case – I wanted it to be a prank. I wanted Charlotte to have run away and the cousin to be covering for her. Not that it would necessarily mean the girl was safe, but…

An hour later, I had to concede defeat – the parents were adamant that the girl couldn’t have run away, the cousin swore on everything most sacred to her that Charlotte had not intended to disappear and the uniforms hadn’t made any progress. With the crowds, the CCTVs were no use and we had no leads. We launched a Child Rescue Alert and I found myself in front of the cameras, traying to look as calm and composed as possible as I was showing the picture of Charlotte and explaining the circumstances of her disappearance to the public. It was only the second time in my career I’d had to do that. The first time, two years ago, had had a happy outcome – the little boy had been abducted by his father and had been returned safely by him too.

Meanwhile, as I went on the scene with DS Jones, I tried not to think about Emma. There had been no CRA then – not in the 90s. I tried not to think about all those hours not knowing anything – feeling even worse than my partner, Carol – her “real” mother – because as a police officer, I should have been able to do something. Feeling her accusing glance on me, both during Emma’s disappearance and afterwards. Emma, it finally turned out, had run away from school where she had been bullied for having two mothers. It could all have been fine. She could have been safe. She could have found a safe place for the night – she could have come back home. Instead, she had found a thirty-year-old bastard who had tricked her into believing he would be her Prince Charming for the night. Carol had never wanted to warn her too much about anything – she had believed her daughter would be protected better than ignorance. When Emma had come back home after four days, all she had done was cry and apologise. All Carol had done was cry and rage. And all I had done was try ineffectively to console them both. But how could you console a twelve-year-old girl who had been raped for three nights in a row and been thrown back on the streets because she was now “used goods” and no use to the rapist anymore? He had been caught and had got an eight-year sentence… Six months afterwards, Carol had left me and taken Emma with her. The girl I’d helped raised since she was two. My daughter. I’d never seen either of them again, although I knew Carol was dead now.

I sighed. I just wanted to find Charlotte alive – and well. My phone beeped – Carey telling me not to wait for her for dinner. I quickly texted back – I highly doubted I would go back home that night. I had to find that girl. A text pinged back: “Be safe, love. Cx”

I texted back – “Always. Same to you. Jx”


End file.
